WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years, Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweet heart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read-- 'That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.' DELIGHT IN DISORDER A SWEET disorder in the dress [A happy kind of carelessness;] A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribands that flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Do more bewitch me, than when art Is too precise in every part. CHERRY RIPE CHERRY ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones--come and buy; If so be you ask me where They do grow?--I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile-- There's the land, or cherry-isle; Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow. _GEORGE HERBERT_ VIRTUE SWEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright The bridal of the earth and sky; The dews shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; Thy root is ever in its grave; And thou must die. Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses; A box where sweets compacted lie; Thy music shows ye have your closes; And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. _ANONYMOUS_ THE SPANISH ARMADO SOME years of late, in eighty-eight, As I do well remember, It was, some say, the middle of May, And some say in September, And some say in September. The Spanish train launch'd forth amain, With many a fine bravado, Their (as they thought, but it prov'd not) Invincible Armado, Invincible Armado. There was a man that dwelt in Spain Who shot well with a gun a, Don Pedro hight, as black a wight As the Knight of the Sun a, As the Knight of the Sun a. King Philip made him Admiral, And bid him not to stay a, But to destroy both man and boy And so to come away a, And so to come away a. Their navy was well victualled With bisket, pease, and bacon, They brought two ships, well fraught with whips, But I think they were mistaken, But I think they were mistaken.